Of Things Broken
by Snotwing
Summary: Future fic. SGA-1 has been split in two different directions by pain and false accusations. They've spent so long pretending that they've all but forgotten that the scars are still there. Only one person can still see the marks-feel them-but what to do?
1. Chapter 1

"Uncle John!"

'Uncle John' stiffened briefly at the unexpected shout. He rolled his shoulders before turning to face the new comer.

"Sorry," Torren said, smiling sheepishly. "Mom wants you. I think she broke the –"

"I did _not_ break it!" An indignant female voice called from the kitchen.

Ex-colonel John Sheppard slouched further into his squishy brown leather couch. It was times like these that he missed living on Atlantis. There _he_ never had to deal with Teyla and her knack for, um, causing appliances to become _dysfunctional_ in her presence.

"Um, right." Torren rolled his eyes, sharing a knowing look with his uncle. "The microwave isn't working."

Sighing resignedly, John levered himself up from the couch. His thoughts turned back to Atlantis. Teyla had never had these sorts of 'problems' with any of the Ancient technology they'd found there. But, then again, Rodney would probably have mailed her to the Mainland in a box if a member of his own team broke his precious gidgets on a regular basis.

Unbidden, images of Rodney teaching Teyla how to use a computer, operate the transporter, or even simply turn the lights on to her quarters rose to the forefront of his mind.

His jaw clenched.

_He_ should be here, dealing with Teyla's curse – not John, the Grunt with the Hair.

Self-consciously, he ran a hand through his dark hair, now tinged with gray. He felt old.

A muffled 'bang' from the kitchen jolted him back to reality and he scampered into the kitchen.

**ooo oo ooo oo ooo oo ooo**

Torren sighed. After the microwave incident Uncle John had sort of shut down. His mom had refused to explain it, only saying that 'John has lost something he should not have – and sometimes he remembers'.

He had no response to that. He had carried the microwave into the garage as it had been labeled 'hopeless' and placed it next to a totaled toaster oven.

They had quite a collection of broken appliances and other devices. Torren had contributed a few items himself, although he refused to be blamed for the flattened green alarm clock that perched rather precariously on top of a slightly charred shop vac.

All the devices were broken, most beyond any hope at all, but Uncle John refused to throw them away.

Sometimes, when Dr. Radek came to visit he would try to fix something. Most often he would shake his head and suggest a better brand appliance.

Torren didn't understand why Uncle John would not allow any of this junk to be thrown out, or, at the very least, taken to a professional to be repaired. His mom, while usually very honest and open, had nothing to say on the subject.

Dr. Radek had gone into a rant when he'd asked – in Czech – leaving Torren even more confused and frustrated than before. It had taken nearly ten minutes before the man calmed enough to speak English.

One of his mom and uncle's closest friends, Dr. Jen, had only said that his Uncle John was too stubborn for his own good.

For all that everyone seemed to disapprove of his Uncle John's habit, no one truly tried to talk him out of it. When it was mentioned the arguments were feeble at best, not even able to withstand Uncle John's most sullen glare.

Torren could tell that whatever was causing his Uncle John to hoard broken appliances in his garage was much more than just an odd obsession. It stemmed from something more, and, sometimes, Torren imagined he could _feel_ Uncle John's pain.

It was not healthy, this habit – it seemed to be a statement of rebellion. Or un-acceptance.

Torren wondered if his mom felt the same way – and Dr. Jen and Dr. Radek.

Frustrated, he slammed his hand down on his desk.

This had been going on as long as he remembered – and that was far long enough.

The teenager refused to put up with extended childish behavior in adults en-masse. Allowing Uncle John his obsession was the same as participating in it.

Resolved, Torren shrugged on his jacket and eased open his window.

His room was on the second floor, but that hadn't been a problem since he was ten. Gracefully, he shimmied down the drain pipe and crouched low to the ground.

It was after dinner and nearly three hours till his 'bed time'. Enough time to visit a friend without being missed.

At that thought he rolled his eyes. All of his friend's parents allowed them to 'go out' without supervision. He was fourteen, after all. _His_ mom and Uncle John, though, were paragons of over protectiveness.

Climbing over the back fence, he wondered if he'd get into less trouble if they were less stifling all the time.

Shaking his head he trotted off towards Mr. Deck's house.

Mr. Roland Deck lived about three blocks down, two streets over. He'd met the older man in the city one day.

After ignoring his mother's admonishments to not wander off, he'd landed himself in a spot of trouble with a local gang. He'd been putting up a good fight, but he doubted he'd been able to make it out without Mr. Deck's timely intervention.

Torren had thought it was a rather strange coincidence that Mr. Deck lived in his neighborhood. Still, that had been the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

He arrived at the small gray house only slightly winded and immediately circled around back.

It was a rare occurrence that Mr. Deck couldn't be found out in his shop, working.

He knocked loudly on the open door. Deck looked up from his carving and grinned.

"Been awhile," he commented gruffly.

Mr. Deck was a very large man with a tall but lean stature and not given to many words. He lived simply, hand carving anything from furniture to decorative figurines. He did most things with his hands – the man didn't even own a phone or a TV. Torren could imagine Mr. Deck as an old timey warrior, back when men fought for honor with sharp blades instead of automatic weapons.

"I came by last Tuesday." Torren grinned exasperatedly – no matter how often he came by Mr. Deck always said that. Even so, Torren could only visit so often. He didn't think his 'guardians' would disapprove… but he wasn't about to chance it.

"Whaddya want?"

Torren wasn't offended by the abrupt question. His concern for his Uncle John was probably clearly stamped on his face. Even if it wasn't, Mr. Deck would probably see it anyway.

"We-el." Torren hesitated. He wasn't sure what he expected his friend to do about it. "It's like this, Mr. Deck –"

The other man growled.

"Told you not to call me that." Torren rolled his eyes.

"You won't let me call you Roland. And whenever I say _Deck_-" Torren raised his voice a little at the name and smirked when the other man lurched forward, shoulders hunched defensively. "You do that. Least you don't make it all the way to the ground anymore." The first time he'd shouted _Deck_ the other man dove behind his workbench and nearly put Torren's eye out with a rather nasty looking awl.

Roland Deck glared at him. He didn't like being reminded of that incident. Torren was guessing that the phrase 'hit the deck' had saved his life more than once.

"So, it's like this, erm," He shrugged. If the big man didn't like his name he should change it. "Uncle John hoards a bunch of broken junk in his garage."

Deck raised his eyebrow.

"Electronic appliances, mostly, but I think there's at least one stapler out there. He won't explain _why_ he keeps it all – no one will. But I don't think it's just a harmless quirk."

Roland frowned and pushed a dreadlock off his shoulder.

"Everyone just tolerates it, even though I can tell they don't think it's good either."

The other man stood up abruptly and marched off towards his house. Torren followed without prompting.

Once in the house, Mr. Deck went straight to his bed room and pulled a cell phone out of his bottom dresser drawer. He thrust it into Torren's shocked face.

Taking the phone, he curiously opened the contacts' file. There was only one number. He looked up at his companion but was met with an impatient expression. Having known Mr. Deck for nearly a year, Torren immediately understood what was expected of him.

He pushed the call button and turned speakerphone on.

It rang six times before a rather angry voice answered.

"This had better be important."

"McKay." Torren's eyes widened at Mr. Deck's tone.

"_What?_ No – I don't think so. You don't get to call on _this_ phone and just 'McKay' me. If it's important you can expl-" Apparently 'McKay' wasn't nearly as impressed.

"_McKay._" Deck tried again.

"_No._ Whatever John has gotten himself into this time, he can just –"

Torren's eyebrow rose. Did he mean Uncle John? He looked over at Mr. Deck.

"He keeps broken stuff in his garage."

Yup, they were talking about his Uncle John alright. McKay didn't respond.

"The kid is worried."

"What kid? And why do you think I care? I happen to be a very busy man, although I'm sure the thought-"

"McKay."

"Will you _stop _that already? I don't know what the hell you want me to do!"

"Come back."

There was a small pause and Torren instinctively braced for an explosion.

"What? I just said I was too busy for this stupid phone call, you Neanderthal. What the hell makes you think I have time to gallivant across the ocean because John Sheppard has a cluttered garage?"

"You need to fix it."

"What –" Torren could hear another spluttered, long winded argument coming on, but Mr. Deck interrupted harshly.

"McKay." Deck loomed over the phone, which Torren held out at arm's length. "_Now."_

A few seconds later a flat, unwavering dial tone sounded harshly in the quiet room.

"Now what?" Torren wanted to know. He actually wanted to know a whole lot of other stuff, but asking Mr. Deck questions was always a risky business. He decided to start with one that he was relatively sure the other man would answer without a fuss.

Snarling slightly, Deck strode out of the room, presumably going back to the shop. Sighing, Torren trailed behind. He was slightly startled when a noise from the kitchen prevented him from opening the sliding door that led out into the backyard.

"Beer?"

Torren laughed. If Teyla and John were the epitome of paranoid parents, then Mr. Deck was the exact opposite. He'd caught Torren with a pack of cigarettes once and hadn't batted an eye. Torren had come back the next day and surrendered the pack, minus one, to the big man. He had fervently vowed never to smoke again. Deck had just smirked smugly.

"Sure… you do know that's illegal, though, right?"

Deck snorted and twisted the top off two bottles before handing one over.

"So, who was that man you called?"

Deck took a long swig of his beer before moving to the sparsely furnished living room. He plopped down on the couch that Torren had help pick out. He'd complained that Deck only had uncomfortable wooden chairs to sit in until the quiet man had broken down and agreed to purchase a sofa.

"Sheppard and Teyla lied to you."

Wow, that was a bombshell. Torren carefully schooled his reaction. His mother often cautioned him to get the whole story before deciding how to react.

"You not from here."

Torren groaned internally. He glared irritably at the erstwhile story teller. This was like pulling teeth.

"What do you mean?"

Deck took another long drink, and then sighed. He acted like speaking hurt. Maybe it did.

"You... weren't born here. Earth."

Torren opened his mouth, and shut it again. This was batty. Completely off-the-wall crazy. Everyone knew that aliens didn't exist. And even if they did, his doctor had assured him more than once that he was a completely healthy teenage boy.

But, then, his Uncle John had joked more than once about believing in life outside of planet Earth. Torren had always thought the man sounded strangely serious.

Oddly enough, this topic did seem to come up fairly frequently at home.

Mr. Deck sat quietly, giving Torren time to absorb this new information.

Torren thought back carefully. Some of the late night conversations he'd eavesdropped on suddenly made much more sense now. He nodded slowly, ready for Deck to continue.

"We're from the Pegasus Galaxy."

_We?_

"About twenty years ago Earth people came to Atlantis. It was an abandoned city built by dead aliens."

Torren blinked. He just realized that if Deck wasn't a nut job, then _he_ was an alien. Huh.

"They accidentally woke the Wraith – bad aliens that feed on humans."

_Alien Vampires?_

"We fought the Wraith for a long time, but eventually had to move the City. We came to Earth."

Torren's mind was teeming with questions, but he knew better than to harass the other man when he was talking. When Deck spoke again, it was in the same calm, measured tone Torren had come to expect from him.

"While we were in Pegasus we fought the Wraith and fought to survive. There were teams."

Deck's expression turned hard and his voice slightly hoarse. Torren's stomach tightened.

"Me, Sheppard, Teyla, and McKay were one. McKay was the scientist."

Torren took an experimental sip of his beer. He still didn't understand and his head was starting to hurt. He trusted Mr. Deck implicitly. He might have a hard time accepting what he was being told, but he knew it _was_ true.

"McKay fixed stuff. Anything was ever broken, he could fix it."

Deck turned away, staring blankly at a bare wall.

"A year after Atlantis came to Earth – you were three – there was an accident. Four people were killed." Deck sighed. "Everyone blamed McKay. So he left."

"Everyone?" Torren's eyes narrowed as he observed the other man. "You?"

"Maybe." He shrugged. "At first. But I followed McKay. The other's did, too, but I found him first."

There was another long pause and Torren wondered if he was going to have to come back tomorrow for the rest of the tale.

"But McKay wouldn't go back. He was hurt – Sheppard was the worst. I stayed with him."

"Why?"

The big man's expression morphed into something Torren didn't recognize. It was fierce, harsh, and almost terrifying. It was gone in a second and Torren saw loyalty.

"Was afraid he'd do something stupid."

"But you're here now…"

"Came back. Two years ago."

Torren nodded. Whatever reason Deck had left the other man to fend for himself really wasn't any of his business.

Hell, this whole mess wasn't really any of his business.

"Mom and Uncle John don't know." It wasn't really a question.

Deck shook his head and swiped Torren's beer, draining the less than half-empty bottle in one long pull.

"Couldn't tell them – McKay set up aliases for the both of us."

"So you think McKay has something to do with Uncle John's garbage collection?"

Deck grunted in what Torren assumed was the affirmative.

"So." Torren braced himself to ask what seemed to be his favorite question. "What now?"

"We go get McKay."

**A/N:** Yes, I've started another story. Yes, you can shoot me.

*sigh*

Although, a review or two would be nice...


	2. Chapter 2

"_So." Torren braced himself to ask what seemed to be his favorite question. "What now?"_

"_We go get McKay."_

Ronon's declaration was flat and unyielding.

"Oh, goody." The teenager nodded. "Well, now that we've got a plan, I think I'll have a little mental breakdown, if you don't mind."

Roland snorted, but paused when he realized the kid wasn't kidding. He was hyperventilating and his eyes were strangely unfocused. Grunting, he reached out to place an arm around the boy's shoulders, hoping to ground him.

He'd seen this kind of reaction many times before – even had it a few times himself.

Torren's response was completely understandable – after all, Ronon _had_ just shattered quite a few of the boy's fundamental 'truths'.

And even though Ronon thought Teyla and Sheppard smothered the boy, he knew he _could_ have been less 'ham handed' about it, as Rodney would say. Although, Rodney probably wouldn't have been much better.

Ronon held the kid gently while he attempted to cope with a completely new reality. He eased away when Torren shuddered suddenly.

"Deck, I-"

"Dex."

"What?"

Ronon sighed. He'd just told a teenager a classified government secret, McKay's paranoia could be damned. He _hated_ his alias.

"Ronon Dex." He frowned, angry at himself for the deceit. "I lied too."

"Oh." Torren shook his head. "It's okay."

When Torren didn't say anything more, Ronon nudged him with an elbow.

"Yes." Torren's head snapped up. His eyes darted to the window anxiously – it was past dark now.

Ronon bit back a chuckle as he watched Torren realize how much crap he was going to be in for when he got home.

Sheppard was probably having a conniption – most likely while organizing a search party to find the kid.

Ronon sighed – this was kind of his fault.

"You ever go AWOL on my uncle?" The boy's voice was calm – not a tremor. Ronon bit back a proud smile.

"Once," he answered curtly. That was more in character.

"So…um." The kid fidgeted, fingering the cuffs of his hoodie. "You gonna help me with-"

"Hell no."

Torren sighed.

**ooo oo ooo oo ooo oo ooo**

"What the hell were you thinking? Where did you go?"

Torren counted to ten.

His expectations of Uncle John's anger seemed to be rather low. He was actually turning purple, and that vein in his forehead was pulsing madly. He hadn't seen that vein since his tenth birthday when he'd accidentally totaled the family car.

"Well?"

Torren sighed – he wasn't ready to deal with this. How _was_ one supposed to deal with an infuriated John Sheppard? Even Roland – er, Ronon – acted phased at the notion of the Wrath of Sheppard.

Up until about two hours ago, Torren didn't even know that Ronon knew his uncle – hell, he didn't even know that he was _Ronon_.

An alien from another planet.

"Uncle John, I'm sorry." He paused. His mother had taught him that lying was wrong. His uncle had taught him that sometimes you didn't have to lie to hide the truth. He really was sorry that he had worried his guardians so much – luckily he hadn't had to deal with his mother yet. She was still driving the mini-van around the block.

"That's it?" His uncle paced angrily in front of his treasured brown sofa. "You're sorry? I think you owe me a bit of an explanation! _Now!_"

The man might be closing in on fifty, but he still looked every bit the fearsome military Colonel. He certainly remembered how to snap an order.

Torren hesitated.

Dex had called himself a friend to Sheppard and Teyla. It would be easy to verify his story right now – but, no.

His gut told him that he _could_ trust Ronon's story – and his sense of right told him that it was Dex's place to reveal his presence.

"I was worried about someone close to me – I only went to see a friend."

"_Who?_" His uncle was still livid.

"I, er, can't tell you."

"Can't, eh?"

Torren shook his head stubbornly. His uncle seemed to recognize the expression on his face. He wasn't going to talk.

"Room. Now."

Torren sighed – he knew this wasn't going to be the end of it – but obediently marched to his room.

Ten minutes later he heard the front door open. His mom was home.

She would be up shortly, he knew, to try to coax out what Uncle John hadn't been able to scare out. He braced himself, readying an excuse he knew she would buy.

Sure enough, he heard the tell-tale creaking of floorboards in the hallway. He summoned a brave grin when his mother knocked politely before entering.

Thirty minutes later he lay ensconced in his comforter. His mom had been more sympathetic to his 'helping a friend' story and had even commended his loyalty. She still had been plenty angry about the whole disappearing act – he was grounded for the next two weeks, all privileges taken away.

Sighing, he snuggled down into the comfortable mattress.

He doubted he'd get much sleep, but he knew he'd better try.

He had a feeling that tomorrow was going to be one _very _long day.

**ooo oo ooo oo ooo oo ooo**

He woke abruptly, immediately reaching for the small knife – a gift from _Ronon_ – that he kept by his bed.

He listened carefully for the sound that had woken him, just as his mother had taught him.

_Clack, clack, clack._

Clack?

Window.

Somebody was throwing stuff at his window.

Quietly, he slipped out of bed and moved towards the window. Looking out, he spotted the bulky figure of his Alien friend.

Torren had the presence of mind to wait for Ronon to bend down to gather more ammunition before opening the window.

He did _not_ want to get hit in the head this early in the morning.

Dex waved at him, gesturing for him to join him in the back yard. Torren motioned for him to wait.

Quickly, Torren got dressed without turning on the light. He pulled a full duffle bag out of his closet – it contained a few necessities, two changes of clothes, and some light-weight survival tools. His Uncle John insisted that he keep it well stocked, always, just in case of emergency.

With a quiet grace born from many training sessions with _both_ his guardians – plus Ronon – Torren slipped out of his window and landed on his feet on the moist ground.

Without making a sound, Ronon gestured for Torren to follow him.

Stealthily, they made their way to Dex's driveway, where the familiar dark green Chevy pickup sat in the driveway.

**ooo oo ooo oo ooo oo ooo**

Four hours later, roughly 7:00 am, Torren slumped in a window seat of a Boeing 747, watching Ronon shift uncomfortably next to him.

"So, um," Torren spoke cautiously, "you never told me where we're going."

"Canada."

"Oh, um, right." Ronon glared at him. "It's just that Canada is a big place, and doesn't really say much…"

"Quebec."

"Well – better, I guess." Torren played idly with his seatbelt clasp. "You know how pissed my mom and uncle are going to be, right?"

Dex grunted.

"They're going to be really, really upset."

"We'll blame McKay."

"Great plan."

"Shut up. Sleep."

Seven hours and one layover later, Torren and Ronon were rather unskillfully navigating through a crowded airport, looking for a car rental kiosk.

"_You_" Torren started at the venomous – accusation?

Well, that's what it sounded like.

Before he had a chance to blink, a blue blur pushed past him and – Torren gawked at the sight before him.

A man of an extremely un-impressive medium height and build was giving Ronon 'I-might-just-use-your-femur-as-a-toothpick' Dex a serious tongue lashing, complete with furiously shaking a finger in the big man's face.

The loud man seemed complete unaware of Dex's irritated/amused grin.

"Nice to see you, too, McKay."

Torren hid a grin as the loud man's monologue stuttered to a stop. Unobtrusively, Torren edged his way over to stand next to Ronon.

"Nooooo – you don't get to show up _here_ and say 'It's nice to-" This time, McKay cut himself off. His blue eyes shifted to glare at Torren – and widened. He looked back at Dex. "You didn't. Please tell me you didn't. That is not Teyla's son." Dex snorted. "No, no, no, no. You moron. Do you have any idea what John will –" McKay seemed to find that thought too disturbing to even finish. "You're taking him back. Now."

"We're not leaving without you."

McKay's face fell.

**ooo oo ooo oo ooo oo ooo**

Two hours after the impromptu meeting in the airport, Torren and Ronon were stuffed into 'Professor MacKree's' office at some university or another – McKay had been ranting a mile a minute still and Torren had stopped paying attention.

McKay had tried, during the car ride, to talk Dex out of bringing him back with them, but to no avail.

Torren suspected that Ronon had actually slept through half of McKay's argument.

Trying not to think of anything, Torren slumped exhaustedly onto one of the two cluttered desks in the small room. He glanced up to see Ronon watching him from the opposite wall.

"Things'll get worse…"

"…before they get better." Torren frowned. They usually did with his Uncle John, but he had a feeling that McKay was going to be an entirely different basket case. "Why him?"

What was so terribly special about this jerk McKay that Uncle John would still have unresolved issues about falsely accusing him of something – ten years later?

Of course, the whole story of aliens and secret flying cities made him wonder how well he really knew his Uncle John – and his mother, too, for that matter.

"Why who?"

Oh, great – Torren tried not to groan as McKay blustered back into the room. Suddenly the small office seemed three times smaller.

"Nevermind." It was too overwhelming – Torren wasn't ready to deal with it. None of it. Not McKay, not aliens, not Uncle John.

A grunt from the corner startled him.

Maybe he could deal with Ronon – after all, he was the only one being completely honest with Torren. Even if honesty did threaten sanity.

Suddenly strong hands were on his shoulders, guiding him somewhere. He was glad of the hands – he felt he would float away without them.

The rest of his evening was a giant blur. Only snatches seemed to register in his brain. Even so, his somehow managed to function without his brain there to guide it.

Up – outside – in the car, _buckle your seat belt_.

Resturant – _eat your carrots_.

"McKay, Sheppard needs you."

The emotion, the urgency, the earnestness… something about that statement registered. Torren snapped out of his daze.

In an apartment that he barely remembered going to, McKay and Ronon were arguing again.

This time, though, McKay seemed to have less fight in him. Without knowing why, Torren spoke up himself.

"Uncle John keeps broken stuff in his garage."

McKay's attention immediately snapped to Torren – who just realized he was slumped on a remarkably comfortable sofa.

"Yes, yes, we've been over that." McKay's hands danced in an expressive arc and his already crooked mouth crooked even further.

He had haggard blue eyes. Torren noticed this and felt like he was seeing the man for the first time.

McKay was like one of Uncle John's broken appliances. Torren didn't know why he thought that, but he knew he was right.

McKay was just as caught up in the past – unable to move forward – as Uncle John.

It _hurt_.

Torren could feel it.

The already blurry room blurred some more and spun a little.

Suddenly Torren was staring into a pair of very worried blue eyes. He could sense Ronon hovering protectively off to the side.

His head felt like it was filled with lead – what was wrong with him?

**ooo oo ooo oo ooo oo ooo**

"He gonna be ok?"

Torren blinked groggily.

"He'll be fine. Being kid-napped by Conan didn't help matters, though."

That was McKay. He was actually making an effort to keep his voice down.

"So, he's-"

"Going to be fine, yes!" Torren eased his body up slowly, peering over the back of the couch. Ronon and McKay were standing in the kitchen, just eclipsed by an inconvenient wall. "He's come into his wraith-sense or whatever. His EKG showed unusual levels of activity in all areas of the brain – but, honestly, it should have been expected."

At the mention of an EKG, Torren suddenly became aware of the several electronic devices cluttered around him.

"The wraith are telepathic – and both Teyla and the kid's father had _that_ gene. Jennifer should have seen this coming – they should have prepared the kid for this."

Torren frowned at the unexpected anger in McKay's voice – and, wait a minute – _telepathy?_

"You know Teyla and Sheppard – they probably wanted to protect him." Ronon's voice was flat, emotionless, but somehow, Torren could tell he was still concerned.

"Well, they did a fine job! Hell, he could have – but he didn't and now he's fine." McKay paused and Torren found himself holding his breath. He had nearly _died_? "He knows, though, about Atlantis and everything?"

Ronon grunted. Torren knew it was supposed to sound affirming, but to him it just sounded irritated.

"Well…"

"Yeah."

The emotions in the kitchen were jumbled and hollow – he couldn't take it anymore. Torren went back to surveying his surroundings. He knew that McKay would bring him food in a minute and Ronon would glare at the scientist until everything was explained.

He wasn't ready for that.

So he went back to staring at the plain walls.

The apartment he was in was smallish and bare – not unlike the inside of Dex's house – except for the comfortable couch, a TV, a desk and the unfamiliar 'electronic devices'. Torren thought maybe he recognized one or two 'items' as funny looking computers. There were none of the stacks of paper, old takeout food cartons or piles of dirty laundry that he would have expected of the scientist.

A sudden, unexplainable jolt of apprehension jerked his attention back to the pair in the kitchen.

"Ow!"

"Don't be a wuss."

"It hurts – oh, god, I could get tetanus. I haven't had my shots in ages – really! What were you thinking, you uncouth ape, stabbing me with a fork!"

"Shut up, McKay."

"No!"

Torren laughed – he couldn't help it.

This is the pair that was going to fix Uncle John.

That was going to fix him?

"You're awake." McKay's expression was more pinched than it had been last night. Torren felt a stab of guilt. Somehow, he knew that McKay wasn't supposed to look like that.

"Yeah."

"Do you…"

"I understand," Torren answered the unfinished question quietly. "I understand what's going on. I know about the wraith – and I know about the mind-powers."

McKay looked over his shoulder at Ronon.

"Kid's tough," came the steady reassurance.

"Yeah, well…" McKay grinned crookedly. "Hungry?"

**ooo oo ooo oo ooo oo ooo**

**A/N:** Hey, guys. I know this chapter was a little disjointed and everybody is slightly OOC, but apparently my muse is in a serious funk. I usually write happy 'everything will be just fine as soon as we get this little issue sorted out' type fics. This may end up being slightly more serious.

Still, thanks very much for reading, and please review. ;)


	3. Chapter 3

"So," Torren spoke through a mouthful of eggs. Not being closely monitored by an overzealous parent/guardian team was a freeing experience. "Ronon said that you're the reason Uncle John keeps broken stuff in his garage."

McKay looked at him quizzically and Dex huffed a laugh through his own mouthful.

"What? That's the first thing you ask about? I mean I know that's why you're here and all – I should have known Ape-man over here couldn't dial a phone on his own – but wouldn't you rather know more about the – I don't know – crazy alien mind powers that tried to explode your brain last night?"

Truth was – no.

"Nope." Torren tugged on one of those self confident shit-eating grins he'd learned from Uncle John.

Honestly, he didn't need to know more about the 'crazy alien mind powers'. They had always been there – always been a part of him. He just hadn't noticed until now.

But he had _felt_ Uncle John's pain and guilt.

He had _experienced_ his mom's inexplicable sadness and unjustified worry. Dr. Radek's frustration and pensiveness. Dr. Jen's sympathy.

And hundreds of other emotions from dozens of other people.

He was okay with that – it wasn't like anything had changed. He was just more aware now.

There was one thing he'd like to know though…

He grinned at McKay's dumbfounded expression.

"Well, I do have one question: my brain isn't going to try to explode again anytime soon?"

McKay shook his head, looking sheepish. Before he had time to blurt some unhelpful non-answer Ronon butted in.

"Device that caused it's been turned off. You're fine."

"Device?" Torren turned to look suspiciously at McKay. The scientist had the grace to look repentant – even if he somehow managed to look arrogant at the same time.

Torren shook his head in wonder at the contradictions flowing from the strange man before him.

"Well – it's not like I could have known! You didn't call or anything-"

"Sure we did." Torren interrupted. Amusement flowed from Ronon – Torren smiled. It had been a long time since he'd seen the other man so at ease. In spite of all the emotional ruckus, Ronon trusted that McKay would do the right thing – believed that McKay _could_ fix Torren's Uncle John. Torren quirked his eyebrow in a passable imitation of his mom when she was only slightly irritated. "You just weren't very receptive."

McKay spluttered then sighed.

Ronon's surprise startled Torren.

Okay, so maybe he had underestimated the time it would take to get used to these new abilities of his. He glanced over at Ronon, hoping to uncover what the big deal was. The big man, however, seemed disinclined to offer an explanation.

Instead, he stared intensely at the scientist.

"You're coming back." It was a statement, not a question.

Torren cocked his head to the side – shouldn't he have picked up on that before Dex did? He stared hard at McKay, willing himself to see _more_.

Nothing.

Well, not _nothing_, but nothing that he understood.

It was all a jumble of emotions – emotions that made absolutely no sense whatsoever.

McKay nodded at Ronon – the big man must have an extra intuition of his own when it came to McKay.

The next instant, however, all passiveness disappeared from the scientist – Torren was startled, Ronon was not.

"It's not like you've given me any choice in the matter! You kidnapped Sheppard's _godson_. Do you have any idea – the whole of Atlantis will be looking for him! Teyla and John are probably both on board the _Daedalus_ trying to track or beam the kid up by means of a subcutaneous homing beacon!"

"They can do that?"

Wow, whole new worlds opening up here. The teen tried to wrap his mind around the concept.

"Yes – well, no." McKay glared. "Of course I have a jamming signal turned on. How do you think I've stayed hidden for so long?"

"Sooo… what you're saying is – if you turn this jamming thing off, we can skip the awful flight back home?"

"Do I look suicidal to you? You think I'm about to turn off my very cleverly designed jamming device and just allow myself to be beamed to Atlantis, or worse, _Caldwell's_ ship – to face a government agency that has been trying to find me for the last ten years?" McKay's rambling significantly outlasted Ronon's abrupt and immediate "Hell No".

Torren snorted in amusement at the pair.

"You do know that the longer we keep Uncle John hanging, the angrier he'll be?"

A strange look passed between the two men – Torren wondered if they were remembering that they'd kept his Uncle John hanging for a decade.

Ouch.

McKay sighed and announced that he had a few things to wrap up at work – Torren would have to book them a flight back.

**ooo oo ooo oo ooo oo ooo**

It was late the next evening when the unlikely trio finally stepped out of a dingy yellow cab in front of Torren's house.

The flight had been interminable – mostly because McKay had bitched, and moaned, and fidgeted the _entire_ time.

Torren had _never_ met a more effusive, creative complainer. Nor did he ever want to again.

With a huge mental effort, he shoved the awful experience to the back of his mind. Focusing on the matter at hand, he glanced over at his two companions. McKay had finally _shut up_. He was staring with much trepidation at the front door.

Torren had expected the house to be crawling with people – or at the very least, for some outward sign of the violent emotions his guardians must be feeling. Surely they were searching for him? Guilt surged up inside him, tightening in his chest. He could've left a note or something.

Without warning, Ronon shoved him forward, rumbling when he didn't immediately ring the doorbell.

Gathering his courage, Torren tentatively reached out and depressed the small white button to the left of the door.

"Maybe I should – you know – wait with the broken stuff in the garage?" McKay made to slip away, but Ronon grasped him by the arm, holding him firmly in place. Not a second later, the heavy wooden door jerked open.

"Oh, Torren." Teyla embraced her son fiercely.

Without releasing the teenager, she glared up at Ronon, who was standing a strategic distance away.

"You – you-" The Athosian warrior took a deep breath and spoke in a voice as hard and sharp as an ice pick. "If you _ever_ do something like this again. I. Will. Kill. You."

"I left a note." Ronon shrugged uncomfortably.

"'Kid's with me. Be back in a week, tops. Dex.' Is _not_ comforting," Teyla responded harshly. She opened her mouth to harangue the tall man further, but was interrupted by a second indignant voice coming from directly behind Ronon.

"You left a _note_! You left a note and you let me believe that you'd just up and kidnapped the kid! Do you have _any_ idea how much stress you put me through?" In his ire, McKay forgot he'd been hiding behind the large man.

Torren, who was struggling in his mother's tight embrace, spoke up.

"Would you have come if he told you?" He turned to glance at Ronon. "It would've been nice if you had told _me_ though."

Ronon shrugged again, but the action went unnoticed as Teyla recovered her voice.

"McKay." She stared, wide eyed, at the doctor. "McKay."

"Yes, yes." McKay waved at her irritably. "Do you mind if we take this inside? Death by vampiric insects has never appealed to me," he sniped, but his tone was off. Ronon knew it was guilt and affection. Torren felt only self-hate and deep melancholy.

Still stunned, Teyla backed into the house, dragging her son in with her, and giving her two long lost friends – ex-team mates – room to enter.

They were all four extremely grateful for John Sheppard's absence.

**ooo oo ooo oo ooo oo ooo**

It was surreal.

Seeing the home that Sheppard and Teyla had made – that the Kid had grown up in – was very, very strange.

McKay had wandered aimlessly through the small, three bedroom structure, poking his nose into all the drawers and closed cupboards he came across. Thus far he'd only uncovered one unloaded gun in the back of Sheppard's closet and a set of short bow staves in Teyla's.

Not what he'd expected.

Not that he'd really thought about it enough to _expect_ anything in particular.

It was just – very normal. Civillian.

It was as if that part of their lives – the defining part of his – had been pushed to the very back of Sheppard and Teyla's mind. Running from hostile aliens, waiting for something to blow up, racing against the clock, fighting and clawing for their very survival – all of it, or most of it, done side by side.

But, then, they'd had the luxury of putting all that behind them. They'd retired and settled down to raise a kid.

McKay had run from a US government agency that wanted to lock him up for something he hadn't done. He'd been running for a long, long time – paranoia had never left him.

But it was surprising to see that John had managed to overcome it – to some extent.

He _had_ been listening to the Kid's tales of over-bearing parenting.

McKay sighed as he ambled back down the quiet hallway, pausing as he passed the rear entrance to the kitchen. Semi-cheerful chatter filtered in from the small dining room on the opposite side of the kitchen.

Teyla's righteous anger had mostly deflated at the sight of McKay – a look of guilt and pity had crept into her eyes and made itself right at home. Every time she turned to McKay, he flinched.

He did _not_ want to be here.

He had listened to Teyla bitch half-heartedly for about five minutes before he'd stood abruptly and walked off.

No one had tried to stop him.

The other three were huddled around the round table sharing tea and strained laughter.

They were all waiting for Sheppard to come _home_ – McKay knew, without needing to be told, that this was 'home' now.

He still dreamt of blue glowing hallways and wonderful, unfathomable alien gadgets. Atlantis was home, and he an exile.

And John had turned his back willingly. Not just on their home, but on _him _as well.

Feelings of deep betrayal clawed at his insides. No one – not one person, had truly believed him innocent at first.

Oh, sure, three years ago, when the 'tapes' were uncovered, they'd all changed their minds, but before that- when he'd sworn on anything and everything he could think of that he was innocent – when he'd begged to be believed… No one had.

They hadn't _completely_ disserted him, true. Sheppard, Radek, Keller, and Carter had banded together to keep him from actually serving time, but it hadn't been enough. They'd done it because they still cared about him, but not because they believed him.

And that just wasn't good enough.

McKay stared at the door he knew led to the garage. He wasn't sure he wanted to go in. He wasn't sure he could keep _from_ going in.

**ooo oo ooo oo ooo oo ooo**

Torren – his god-son and the most important person in his world – was _gone._ Missing. Abducted? Kidnapped? Tortured? Dead?

John grabbed for his coffee mug, only to find it _empty_ again. He sighed in frustration, keenly aware of his left leg bouncing rapidly of its own accord.

Caffeine in stressful situations wasn't usually his gig, but it was … comforting and familiar to have it around. Even if he was the one that had to drink it. It made him jittery.

He stood up from his table in the mess – leaving the coffee mug – and headed back toward the control room so that he could get yelled at by a skinny gray alien.

Hermoid was plenty fed up with his hourly check-ins – he wondered if the Asgard even realized that he'd started out with twenty minute intervals two days ago. He should show _some_ relief, gratefulness, right?

He stumbled into the control room of the _Deadalus_, and, before he could open his mouth, was informed of 'no news' by a strangely pissed off Asgard.

Deciding there was no use in arguing, he about faced and walked out the room silently.

_Dex._

Ronon was involved – John had been the one to find the hastily scrawled note left on the kitchen table.

'_Kid's with me._ _Be back in a week, tops. Dex'_

It ought to have been more reassuring than it was – but neither John nor Teyla had heard from the big man in years – almost as long as McK-

No.

There's really no telling where the big man had ended up. After awhile, John had stopped wondering, for the most part. Just like he had stopped wondering about McK-

Damnit.

He couldn't find Torren. The subcutaneous homing beacon that had been attached to Torren when he was five – purely precautionary – was useless. John wished he'd had the foresight to have it checked every few months, despite Hermoid's reassurances that one of his homing beacons didn't just _break._

A jamming device was more likely. John remembered how adept McK-

_No, damnit!_

John sighed, and surrendered to the inevitable.

He missed McKay.

The man had been closer than a brother. And now, he was god-knows-where doing god-knows-what and it was John's fault.

Closing his eyes, he remembered the event he'd spent the last ten years trying to forget.

_It had been a normal Saturday morning. Well, as normal as Saturday mornings ever were. It had been a strange adjustment – living in Atlantis, but suddenly being able to step out for doughnuts and coffee in the busy streets of San Francisco. He'd been about to do just that when his comm. beeped._

_The explosion had been small – small enough that he hadn't even felt it from his quarters only two levels up. But small was not the qualifier that came to mind while witnessing the aftermath._

_Seeing McKay curled in a corner, unconscious and singed from the blast had nearly – he'd been scared. He'd already lost one friend in these exact circumstances. He suddenly, fervently, wished Carson was there to reassure him._

_He needed someone to tell him that McKay _was not dead._ The words came from some nameless tech that had no idea who his patient was._

_McKay had been wheeled away into surgery._

_And then, the nightmare began._

_There was video evidence. There were witnesses. The project was _McKay's_._

_Four scientists had been in the room when the 'experiment' had exploded. The researchers had been attempting to modify an ancient energy source to produce the type of electricity that could power a small city. _

_Rodney had been overseeing it._

_According to both the video evidence and witnesses, McKay had entered the room and fifteen minutes later there was an explosion._

_McKay was in the room with three other scientists._

_Never mind that there were four bodies in the room and one McKay in the hallway._

_The scientists could not have initiated the next stage of the experiment without McKay's go ahead. _

_Which McKay had sworn he hadn't given._

Doranda_. Sheppard hadn't been able to believe him. Not with the evidence against him. _

_Carter had been the one to explain the body count – the device had released a small E.M. pulse prior to combusting – knocking out all the cameras and other electronic devices within a fifty-foot radius. There could have been up to a two minute lapse between pulse and explosion. Plenty of time for McKay to escape, and Dr. Breimann to enter._

_McKay had done it again._

_Only, this time, instead of blowing up two-thirds of an uninhabited solar system, he'd killed four people in the name of science._

The tapes had been found three years ago – the secret audio diary of Dr. Amos Breimann. McKay's wacked theory had actually been close – Breimann hadn't built his own cloaking device, but had borrowed one from Area 51.

It had been completely legal – all the paperwork filled nicely and dated several weeks prior. The device had even been recovered by some nameless tech – damn new recruits didn't know anything – and sent back to Area 51 without raising any red flags.

The tapes, though, had been beyond incriminating. Breimann ranted and raved about McKay's refusal to okay the next step in his research. So Breimann had taken matters into his own hands. He'd used the device from Area 51 to disguise himself as Dr. McKay and given the go-ahead himself.

No-one knows what McKay was doing in the hallway, so close to the explosion. McKay himself hadn't remembered. Head trauma suffered during the explosion had made that explanation completely plausible, but not rendered it any more believable, at the time.

After the new evidence had come to light, charges against McKay had been dropped. No one had bothered to renew the search, though. If McKay didn't want to be found….

The scientist had managed to stay below the radar for seven years. John doubted very much that the man was still on planet Earth. If anyone could make it off that rock without alerting NASA or NATO, it would be McKay.

Three years later, John had concluded that McKay didn't want to be found.

"Sir?"

John was startled out of his reverie by some nameless, faceless lieutenant – _another one, _he thought.

"You have a message from Ms. Emmagen."

Torren.

"_John, Torren is back. He is fine. Ronon had brought him."_

Ronon.

"Beam me down, Scotty."

**ooo oo ooo oo ooo oo ooo**

**A/N: **Hey guys. I want to thank everybody for sticking with me through the extremely long hiatus. I hope you've enjoyed this newest chapter. Thanks for reading and please review. I would love to hear any thoughts you have about John and Rodney's reunion.


	4. Chapter 4

**ooo oo ooo oo ooo oo ooo**

The house Sheppard and Teyla were living wasn't tiny – but it wasn't so large that the door in front of him could lead to anything but the garage.

_Where John keeps broken stuff._

He didn't want to go in.

Honestly, the kid may think that Sheppard had some huge problem, some kind of trauma or something, but it couldn't really be because of him. McKay left – sure, his friends were probably affected. Maybe they were even upset by it – but was his abrupt departure any more upsetting than the idea that he was a _murderer_?

No. No way.

It doesn't matter that 'they' were only going to convict him of manslaughter. 'They' weren't even going to send him to jail – just take away his paycheck, his right to quit the SGC, and his ability to move freely about Earth. Not to mention his actual _job. _He knew without being told that he would never again be trusted with any type of research project. He wouldn't be able to go off world.

He would be taken off of Sheppard's team. He would be relegated to the most menial of research tasks.

And every time anyone looked at him, they would see a failure, a man that _killed_ in the name of science.

McKay left.

He had to.

And John – Sheppard didn't believe him. No-one did.

Not even Ronon – not at first.

So what if Sheppard were hoarding junk in his garage? It was some kind of mental illness. How _dare_ he – how dare _anyone_ try to put this on McKay.

Bolstered by righteous anger, McKay slammed the door open, a tirade of epic proportions right at the tip of his tongue.

He saw – what he saw froze him. His insides quivered.

The junk was arrayed fairly neatly. The heavy appliances were pushed against the far wall – a refrigerator and a washer or dryer and something else vaguely square shaped that was completely covered by medium sized appliances. Microwaves, toasters, DVD players, a few laptops, a couple of kitchen thingies that Rodney didn't recognize, at least one VHS player – _really?_ – and a printer or two were stacked in neat columns on, around and in front of the larger items. Smaller things like alarm clocks, hair dryers, electric shavers, cameras, and lamps were arranged haphazardly at the very top of the stacks.

While this was all a bit _more_ than what Rodney had expected, it what had locked his muscles more surely than rigor mortis.

Across from the ungodly pile of _things_ was a simple table with a lamp, a chair, and a very familiar set of tools.

His toolkit. From Atlantis. Was here, rotting in Sheppard's garage.

The toolkit that he had mourned for weeks after he had been forced to leave it behind. The one that had survived with him through countless alien attacks and other life-threatening situations on Atlantis. The same toolkit that he never took with him off world, because he wasn't about to lose it.

McKay sighed explosively. Damn John Sheppard – he couldn't ever let it be all his fault, could he? He couldn't be normal – no, John Sheppard had to do things like run off on hopeless suicide missions (_and live_), disobey orders (_and get promoted_), and keep McKay's old toolkit in his garage (_and somehow evaporate ten years' worth of righteous rage)_.

Further inspection, when he could move again, revealed that the tools hadn't seen much use over the years – if any.

McKay wasn't one for waiting. He didn't like to sit around and do nothing while he _waited_ for 'what comes next' to drop out of the sky.

Without thinking about it, he grabbed one of the smaller items from the top of the nearest 'pile'. The shiny red hair dryer was suspiciously blackened at one end.

McKay scowled. Had someone _set fire_ to the thing?

Deciding it was not worth saving; he quickly disassembled the casing and salvaged what he could from the inner workings. The rest he dumped into a mostly empty bin he found lying around. He tossed to strings of Christmas lights and a very much flattened alarm clock with no deliberation. A toaster yielded several springs and a heating coil.

McKay worked quickly and decisively. The mindless work soothed him and he was able to push his emotional turmoil to the back of his mind.

His second microwave, however, caused some trouble. The cord had somehow wrapped around the handle of an upright vacuum cleaner. He didn't notice until it was too late – the domino effect decimated four of the 'stacks' on the right side of the massive pile.

McKay cringed until the tremendous crash died down.

Oh well. It was all broken anyway.

He went back to work.

**ooo oo ooo oo ooo oo ooo**

Following general safety guidelines, John materialized back on planet earth in a purposely clear area of his back yard. It was all he could do to keep from hurling himself at the back door. As it was, it was a good thing Teyla had left the back door unlocked.

"Torren!" The roar was comprised of equal parts rage and desperation. "Torren!"

A semi-startled, semi-timid squeak directed him through the kitchen to the living room. Torren – alive, healthy, and unmarked – shrugged off Teyla's protective arm around his shoulders and stood from his seat next to her on the sofa. Sparing no more than a cursory glance around the room – threat assessment – John grabbed the teenager into a fierce, desperate embrace.

"Don't you ever, _ever_ disappear like that again," he growled, venting his pent up fear in the most convenient form – anger. "You hear me? You are grounded for the next _millennia_!"

There was a snort in the background that John identified easily as Not-Teyla, but otherwise ignored.

"What possessed you? The second time in a week, Torren! Is it some new fad of yo-"

"Sheppard!"

_That_ got his attention.

"Give the kid a break. Can't keep him cooped up all the time."

Ronon – _Ronon_ – was lounging casually in his favorite armchair, giving him _parenting advice._ The same Ronon who hadn't been seen in nearly ten years, not since McK- _No Damnit._

"What the _hell –_" Incoherent ranting had never been a favorite of John's. That was McK- _no._ "You- _why_-" It seemed that incoherent ranting was all he was capable of, at the moment. "Where do you get off, abducting my _godson_. You've been gone ten years! And now you just-"

A very loud crash – like a small explosion or a car crash – interrupted his building ire.

Instinctively, John reached for his gun, which he had been carrying again since Torren's disappearance.

"Easy." Ronon pushed his arms down, pointing the gun safely at the ground. "It's ok."

"Someone else is here?" John was _not_ reassured. Not even a little. "Who the hell else is in my house now?"

"John." Teyla stepped forward, speaking softly. Her eyes were earnest and John's gut clenched. "It's…"

No. He did _not_ want to hear this.

Teyla may have hesitated out of empathy, but Ronon customarily steam rolled right on through.

"It's McKay."

_McKay._

**ooo oo ooo oo ooo oo ooo**

John blinked at the solid wood of the door to the garage. Through the barrier, he could hear sounds of tinkering and muffled swearing. Every once and awhile there was a short, sharp crash. John imagined McKay carelessly tossing useless items aside.

He had no idea how long he stood staring at wood grain. The other three hadn't followed him – he could hear them talking quietly in the other room, but he wasn't listening.

A quiet _pop_ and louder swearing finally prompted him to action.

Very quietly, he edged the door open. He was careful not to attract the attention of the scientist as he crept forward.

The garage was dimly lit by the table lamp which had been set up on the impromptu work bench. McKay – whole, healthy, and very much alive, if a little older – was bent over and muttering at Teyla's old laptop. John was pretty sure it was the one which had been put through the wash.

Radek had taken one look at it, chattered grumpily in Czech, and suggested he buy a desk top for Teyla.

McKay chose that moment to glance up over his shoulder, then let his gaze sweep the room, from left to right. It was an unconscious, paranoid tic that would've been right at home in Ronon, himself, or even Teyla. It seemed so _wrong_ on Rodney – who used to be so very oblivious while working.

They were staring at each other, now. John would like to break the silence, to say _something_, but his mind was completely blank.

Even his anger had left him.

Nothing could ever shut McKay up for long, though. He was yelling about… something. John wasn't listening.

It wasn't really important.

The important thing was – he had let his teammate down. He'd failed to trust Rodney 100percent.

He let Rodney think he had been abandoned by his friends, by _him_. And so the man left.

And John couldn't blame him.

He didn't plan them, but when the words slipped out, he knew they needed to be said – and he _meant _them.

"I'm sorry."

**ooo oo ooo oo ooo oo ooo**

Rodney blinked.

Of course. Of course, what was he thinking?

He had just been lamenting, earlier, the fact that John Sheppard couldn't do anything normal. So when McKay starts insulting Sheppard's house, mocking his parenting skills, and berating the huge health and safe hazard he keeps squirreled away in his garage, of course the man doesn't yell.

He doesn't scream and rage. He doesn't cringe and grovel.

McKay once made his college physics professor cry, with words alone. He wanted the anger – did his best to provoke it. If John were angry, then he could be, too.

But, no, the damn man just stands there calmly and utters the most sincere apology McKay has ever heard.

Damnit.

McKay's jaw works silently for a moment.

"Really?" A small moment. "That's it? You're sorry? Ten years, and that's all you have to say? But, I suppose that that's all you usually have to say, isn't it? You, the grunt with the hair, flash your Kirk-onian smile and bat your freakishly long eyelashes at all the girls and pout "I'm sorry" and – ha" he snapped his fingers "like that you're forgiven. Well, guess what Kirk. I'm not some bimbo with the memory span of a gold fish. You want me to forgive you?"

McKay crossed his arms. He was bluffing. He had no idea _when_ it had happened, but he knew that he had forgiven Sheppard – and Teyla and Jennifer and Carter and Radek – a long time ago. He could probably blame Ronon.

"Well, not so easy, fly-boy. You're gonna earn it. Every bit." McKay scowled his very best scowl.

Sheppard was grinning. Hugely.

McKay's fake scowl became a bit more genuine with irritation as John's grin widened to 'shit-eating' magnitude.

Ten years and nothing had changed.

He thought back to the house he had just trawled through and Teyla's well worn jeans and _Eagles'_ T-shirt.

Well, not _everything_ had stayed the same.

But this had. Them. Even after ten years, John still understood what he _meant_ despite what he was _saying_. It had been damn annoying back then, but he was _almost_ grateful for it, now.

"You." Rodney pointed. "I mean it. You are going to grovel until the next ice age comes."

"Sure, Rodney."

McKay blustered a bit more, but his heart wasn't truly in it. Sheppard, per usual, saw right through it. So what was the point?

The point – the point was that they were going to have to start over. He may have forgiven them – him – but that didn't magically make everything okay. Rodney knew that he, himself was pretty screwed up – maybe he always had been. Combine that with Sheppard's particular brand of insanity – which, based on the garage full of evidence, hadn't waned any – and ten years of emotional baggage and _change_…

Well, there would be no telling.

But he was ready for it. If Rodney had learned anything in his ten years of freedom and isolation, it's that the freedom wasn't really worth the isolation.

He'd probably made a lot of people angry by leaving – and not just his friends, but the higher ups, too – but he could deal with it.

He didn't think John would let him down again anytime soon.

Maybe he wouldn't have at all, if McKay hadn't been so very sure of it. If he hadn't left like he did.

It didn't matter.

It was time to start over.

He looked John straight in the eye.

"You just remember that you agreed to it."

**ooo oo ooo oo ooo oo ooo**

John was grinning.

McKay looked terrifying. Age and stress had deepened the lines around his mouth and eyes. His hair – thinned, but still present – was still brown. McKay was much thinner than he had been so many years ago – it hurt John to think that it was because no had been there to pester the man into eating more than MRE's and breakfast bars for days on end. Somewhere along the way, McKay had learned how to set his crooked mouth into a hard, unforgiving line that looked more at home on his once open, innocent features than it should.

But it didn't matter how fierce McKay's scowl was – he could lie with his words, with his face. John knew, because he remembered teaching him. But his hands, his body language, didn't lie. When McKay was angry, truly angry, he shook his fists, stomped his feet, and leaned forward, fearlessly, into his opponent's space.

But this McKay's arms were crossed defensively in a forced posture and his feet were still. His stance would break and his hands would dance free, drawing expressive open arcs in the air. Maybe things weren't perfect between them. Hell, things were probably not even _okay_ between them, but McKay wasn't anywhere near as angry as he was pretending to be.

It would take a hell of a lot of work from both of them to make things okay, but he knew what McKay was offering.

He was offering a chance to start over.

He'd probably be grinning for days. And every time Rodney glared and snapped at him he'd say it again.

"Sure, Rodney."

**ooo oo ooo oo ooo oo ooo**

The End

**A/N:** Ach! Finally complete. Thanks to all my readers for sticking with me for so long. I hope you enjoy this last chapter. Please review.


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